The MorningGlory and the Rose
by xxkissmeimirishxx
Summary: My first and possibly last angst fic. Dean had been seriously screwed up by the war, and when Seamus suddenly reappears, things change.    NOTE, however many years after writing this. This is not my proudest moment in fanfic, and it's a bit blurry. Some people requested I not delete it  you know who you are :3


Title: The Morning-Glory and the Rose Author: kissmeimirish Pairing: Deamus Rating: PG-14? 15? Some brief language, implied sex and mentions of drug use and prostitution. Sorry, but that isn't too shocking to me.  
Disclaimer: Insert mandatory "I don't own the fucking thing" #637 here.  
Notes: Angst, my first and possibly last. Don't really like the stuff. Summary: Dean is majorly screwed up after the War, and Seamus isn't faring much better, when they meet again, three years later. Not happy.  
- - - - - - - - "Seamus?"  
I can't believe this. I haven't seen Seamus for over three years, not since the Battle of Hogwarts.  
He's on my front step, wearing some dirty clothes, bruises, and an odd expression.  
"Hi, Dean." He's quiet.  
"What's- what's going on?"  
"Thought I'd see how you're doing." "Fine, thanks. Better than you look."  
He smiles, but only for a second.  
"I thought maybe we could talk."  
"Talk about what, Finnigan?"  
"'Bout what I said."  
"That was almost four years ago."  
"I know, but you don't seem to have forgotten." He caught me, tricky bastard.  
"All right. You better come in."  
I stand back and let him pass, shutting the door after. He stands in the front room, looking around at the walls, covered in color.  
"Wow, Dean. These are- wow."  
"What?"  
"So- real."  
"Since when are you an art critic?"  
"I was around you enough to know what you think is good."  
"In art, anyway."  
"Yeah."  
"C'mon in here." He follows me into my kitchen and sits on the stool I point at. "So who beat you up?" I put the kettle on, trying not to look at him.  
"Dunno. Some bloke."  
I snort. "What'd you say to him?"  
"Not much. He likes fighting."  
"So do you."  
He doesn't answer.  
"What have you been doing?" I don't really want to talk about me.  
"Wandering around."  
"Got a flat?"  
"I did."  
"What d'you mean, 'you did'?"  
"The shop where I was working went under, so I got the sack and so did my place."  
"Then where've you been staying?"  
"Doorways, mostly. Sometimes I'll get lucky and kip in a church."  
I don't know what to say, so I just hand him a cup of tea. He sips, and a cut on his lip starts to bleed.  
"Look, you better wash your cuts. That one's nasty." I gesture to an open wound on his arm. "Down the hall, door on your left."  
He obediently puts down the cup and goes to the bathroom. I hear water running and a muffled curse.  
"What happened?"  
"Nothing. A little sore."  
I abandon my own too-hot cup and follow him, though I don't know why.  
"Put some of this on it," I say, handing him a bottle of antiseptic.  
"Oww," he moans as he dabs some on another cut.  
"God, Seamus, what *happened* to you?"  
For his shirt has ridden up, and I can see that his whole lower back is a bruise, purple and green.  
"What?"  
"Your back."  
"Oh. Fell off a building," he mutters.  
"How high?"  
"Ten stories."  
"You survived."  
"Magic."  
"Oh."  
What was he doing on a ten-story building?  
I help him bandage his now-bleeding cuts and ask a another question.  
"Where are you staying tonight?"  
"Dunno. Church, doormat. I'm not too fussy so long as I'm out of the rain."  
Christ. If I turn him out now, I'll be a total arsehole. "You should stay here. Kip in the front room."  
*That* gets him to look at me.  
"You sure? I'm fine with sleeping outside."  
"Yeah, well, I'm not."  
"Thanks, Dean."  
It's not as if he asked to come in, either. *I* asked him in and told him to clean up. "You wanna wash up?" It slips out before I know where it came from. "Some of my things should fit you, a little." He looks uncomfortable, but nods his head slowly. "I- if you want me to, yeah."  
"Wait here."  
I come back with some old jeans and a t-shirt I outgrew a while back, to find him with his ragged shirt in his hands, inspecting his back in the mirror. It looks horrible. His whole back is black and blue, with some new cut and old scars. I reach out and trace a faint raised line.  
Seamus, a feisty third-year, breaking a mirror in a bathroom with a missed spell. It all falls on him, shredding his clothes and skin, and I'm scared, scared for his life.  
I realize that he's looking at me funnily. I remove my hand and give him the clothes.  
"Towel's over there."  
"Thanks."  
I go back to the kitchen, try to drink my tea, and realize I need a *real* drink. As I sip my whiskey, the shower turns on, and I remember.  
It's our fifth year. Harry, Ron, Neville, Seamus, and me are in the showers, laughing and throwing sponges at each other. Out of nowhere, Neville gets a hard-on, and we tease him, even though we know he can't control it. It's only when Harry calls him a poof, and we all start laughing that I notice Seamus is huddled in the corner, not even smiling.  
"Dean?"  
I open my eyes- they were shut?- to see Seamus, hair plastered to his head, wearing my clothes. He's got his old dingy things in his arms, and I have to bite back a laugh when I see how big my clothes are for him. He's practically swimming in cloth.  
"You were just standing there, like you were asleep. You okay?" He looks worried.  
"Fine. You hungry?"  
He turns a little pink. "It's okay, I was going to go find something later."  
"How?"  
"I have ways."  
"You're already here and I've got soup, so just stay in, yeah?"  
"It's just- I only came to talk, and I don't want to be an inconvenience."  
"The soup's already done."  
He bites his lip. "Okay. You win."  
I can tell he's feeling out of place, and I have to remind myself that I was the one asking him in and practically force-feeding him. Seamus never did ask for much.  
"Eat your soup." I slide a steaming bowl to his seat.  
We sit at the counter, sipping in silence.  
"What do you normally do for food?"  
"I find little jobs that usually pay for some."  
"That's what I mean, what do you *do?*"  
He looks at me sideways. "Nothing illegal."  
Now I *really* don't like it.  
"Seamus."  
"I'm not trafficking drugs or offing people for the mob or anything."  
I grind my teeth. He always was able to drive me mad by skirting the issue.  
"What about you?" he asks, between spoonfuls of soup.  
"I found a gallery."  
"Good for you!"  
"Thanks." I feel kinda odd. He sounds so- emphatic, true. He helps me clear up the dishes and puts the leftover soup away.  
"Uh- Seamus-"  
"Yeah?"  
"I usually start painting now, so if you wanna crash or whatever-"  
"Could I watch you?"  
"Watch?"  
"Watch you paint. I- always liked doing that. Won't make any noise."  
"Um- yeah, sure. You won't have to be too quiet 'cause I put music on."  
"What kind?"  
"Jazz mostly."  
"Whatcha gonna paint?"  
"The one I sketched out yesterday. Forest. You should make your bed; I paint pretty late."  
We get some blankets and pillows from the closet and make a nest in the corner. (I don't have a couch.) Seamus makes sure he can see my canvas from the jumble and settles in, pulling the shirt off as he slides under the blankets.  
I put on some quiet jazz, adjust the lights, mix my colors, and lay the first strokes of paint on the canvas.  
This is my space, my moment; here I forget everything, nothing else matters.  
I don't look up until half past 3 in the morning.  
As I tidy up, I see that Seamus has succumbed to sleep, snuggled in the blankets like he was still fifteen, one bare shoulder jutting up from the fabric. He came here just to talk, and instead I made him eat, bandaged him up, and stuck him in a bed, all the while avoiding any talking. I shake the memories away, turn off the music and lights, and go to my own bed.  
It's so quiet when I wake up the next morning that I forget about the leprechaun in my front room.  
Seamus is sitting at the kitchen counter, still shirtless, doing something to a scrap of paper. His bed has been neatly cleared away, and everything else looks the same. I look at the clock. 10:45.  
I turn the stove on, causing him to jump and turn around.  
"Oh- hi, Dean."  
His chest is still pretty much hairless and smooth, with those boyish muscles, but the dark shadows and cuts make me wince.  
"You should see a healer," I say, nodding at his wounds. He quickly pulls the shirt on.  
"I kinda am a healer."  
This surprises me. "What do you mean?"  
"I was going to go the St. Mungoes after school, but they decided they didn't want a well-publicized Hogwarts student on their staff."  
"Is all that stuff magical?"  
"Pretty much."  
"If you knew regular medical stuff, maybe a Muggle place would take you on."  
"They all want at least four years of college with chemistry, anatomy, medical science, and some other stuff. Even the ones who'll train you."  
"So you just need a degree."  
"Yeah. Fat chance."  
He's right.  
"You eat yet?" I ask.  
"Oh- no."  
"Why not?" Why am I asking?  
"Not really hungry. And I don't know your- customs."  
God, it's weird to hear him say that. My best mate, not knowing how I do things? Then again, he probably feels kinda out-of-place and didn't want to go poking through my cupboards.  
"Look, Seamus, if you get hungry, come in here and find something to eat. It's okay, really."  
He nods.  
"What are you making?" I ask. He hold out a folded paper dove, and taps it with his wand. It rises up from his hand and soars around my kitchen, finally settling on my head. I smile. It's been longer than I remembered since I saw something like that.  
"That's part of what I do," he says, quietly.  
"Do?"  
"For a job. I do magic tricks and such in the squares. Nothing too unbelievable, though, or the Ministry'll find out."  
"What do you do when it's raining, or no one's interested?"  
"I find- other things."  
He really does not want to tell me, which just makes the uneasy feeling in my chest grow. Why am I being so goddammed protective? The last time I saw him, I was sure I hated him. I hate almost all magic things. They caused too much trouble. I had to bury too many of my friends.  
"Seamus, are you in trouble?"  
"Trouble?"  
"Yeah, like are people looking for you?"  
"Not that I know of, why?"  
"You keep skirting the issue."  
"I'm kinda worried about what you'll say, and you'll start yelling and we won't be able to talk. I came here to talk."  
My breath catches. "Tell me what you do."  
"Only if you won't yell." He sounds like a first-year again, trying to tell his dad that he accidentally made his favorite fishing pole explode.  
"I won't yell."  
"I was walking down this street one night, after a really bad day, and these guys came out of a building. They asked if I needed a place to sleep and something to eat, and I said yeah. Turns out, they were male prostitutes, and if I worked there a couple days and nights a week, I could make enough to survive. The money's better than I thought, so I don't need to do it very often. And I'm not spending it all on crack like they are, either."  
He's not looking at me.  
"God, Seamus, is that who hurt you?"  
"The prostitutes didn't; the clients did." It hits me. "They were- *men?*"  
"Mostly."  
I push that to the back of my head. "*People* did *all that* to you? All those marks?"  
"Not totally. I fell, remember?"  
"How?"  
"Uh- I just- fell." I can still tell when he lies.  
"You don't wanna tell me that, either?"  
"Don't wanna push my luck."  
That almost hurts. He looks at me, finally.  
"Are you still really mad at me?"  
"From what?"  
"School."  
"Oh." *That.* Deep breath.  
"Not really." Liar. "I had a lot on my mind then, so I overreacted."  
He nods, slowly, eyes back on knees. "I didn't fall. I jumped."  
"What?!"  
"I jumped. Off the roof of a building."  
I'm dumbfounded.  
"I was too much of an idiot to even think about the magic. It slowed me down so much that I just floated the last few feet down, but then it all caught up with me tenfold. That's how I got these." He gestures to his back. "They're magical, so they won't really go away."  
"Why- why did you-"  
"Jump?" He's wearing a twisted smile. It's quite creepy, very unlike the Seamus grin I'm used to. It looks- almost demented. Desperate. Sad.  
"Was it because of the prostitute thing?" I ask.  
"Partly. I *was* tired of living like that; tired of living entirely, really. And partly because I was sick of the memories, the memories and all the questions."  
"Questions."  
"Yeah."  
"What questions?" Don't panic.  
"Like 'what's gonna happen now, I've screwed up the only friendship I have and I don't have the feckin' guts to do anything about it."  
I sit down, not trusting my legs any longer. The dove flutters down to my knee, and grows still.  
"So you're saying that you tried to kill yourself because you told me that you love me three years ago."  
"Mostly. Yes."  
"You're a total idiot." "Am I?"  
I think.  
No, he's not. If I had been reduced to letting strange men crawl over me all day and night just to survive, and then been thinking about the huge, major part of my life that I'd thought I'd fucked up, I'd be damn near loony too.  
"What about your parents?" I change the subjects.  
He shrugs. "Dunno. They stopped writing after I told them I wouldn't be making it as a healer, or even a Muggle one."  
"Harsh."  
Another shrug.  
"Well- Seamus- I'm not mad at what you said. That was a long time ago. Really, it's okay." I was a nutcase then. I still am. "I'd like you to stay here, with me. Don't go back to wherever you were working. Let me patch you up, see if we can find something healthy for you to do."  
"Only if you're sure I won't be a nuisance."  
"Aww, well, you're Seamus Finnigan, aren't you? You just won't be worse than you've always been."  
He smile makes my heart glow and my spirits lift. I manage to get Seamus relatively healthy over the next few days. Turns out that even he wasn't buying crack, he was still pretty addicted to it. After I got him detoxed, though, he started to gain some weight and stopped looking like a ghost.  
His cuts and open wounds have healed, though his back- actually, it's his whole body, just mostly his back- are still dark and grim-looking. If you look closely, you can see the individual tendrils of magic spreading across his skin.  
"I just wish it had formed in something that I could pass off as a tattoo," he said, with a wry smile. He's got one of those, too. It's a traditional Irish-Celtic knot, on his left shoulder, blue and black ink. Sometimes, when he's asleep, I draw him again. Compare it to some old drawings that I dig up, ones I didn't know I had. I can see how he's filled out. He's grown now.  
His hair is longer than I remember. It's more like it was when we were in our second and third years, not cut short as it was in our older years.  
That all seems so long ago.  
I'm watching Seamus pack what little of his belongings are left after the Battle of Hogwarts, alone in the dorm. It seems so empty, with everyone gone. We'll never be in it again; now it'll see a new generation of jokes and wanks and midnight sneaks. I don't want to talk. I don't want to think about what happened. I'm not sure if I ever want to hear the word 'magic' again.  
"Dean?"  
"Hmm?"  
"There's something I've been meaning to say."  
"Mmm."  
"I'm- uh- I'm in love with you." He says it quietly, in a rush. "What?!"  
"I love you."  
I jump up from my old bed, gripping my wand so tight I feel it creak under the pressure.  
"Say that again."  
"I- love you."  
I glare at him. This is too much. Seamus can't go changing on me now, not after the whole world got turned upside down.  
Words fail me. Instead, I wrench open the door, and before I run down the stairs, I cast one look back.  
I've never seen a look on his face like this before.  
"Fucking poof."  
And then I'm gone.  
That had been the last time I'd seen Seamus. A couple people asked where he was later, but soon they all figured out that something had happened, and never asked again.  
I really wish, now, that I hadn't left it like that for so long. Especially now that I know what it made him do.  
I have to take a few of my new paintings to the gallery. Packing them up, I call, "Seamus? I'm gonna be out for a while. Don't set anything on fire, all right?"  
The bathroom door opens, and his wet head pokes out. "Okay. See you."  
The walk takes longer then I expected, and then there was a line at the office. Finally, I just leave my case there with a note and start back home. Nice. It's raining.  
I get an odd feeling that something has happened.  
When I let myself in, the first thing I see is Seamus sitting on the floor, a small stack of papers beside him. One look confirms my fears. They're the drawings of him.  
Something inside me cracks. Maybe it was the last fragment of whatever hold the past had over me breaking loose, maybe it was just fear and shock, but whatever it is takes over my mouth.  
"Seamus!"  
His head rockets around, a strange- fear? Seamus Finnigan is afraid?- in his eyes.  
"Dean-"  
"Where did you get those?"  
"They were in the kitchen drawer, next to the pencils."  
I bend over and snatch them up, checking their order briefly. Good, the most embarrassing ones were still on the bottom; maybe he hadn't seen them yet.  
He stands. "Dean-"  
"Don't- mess with the art, okay?"  
He nods, looking at his feet. "There's something-" but he finishes the sentence in a mutter and shuffles off to the bathroom.  
An hour later, I'm feeling really bad for acting like that, and he still hasn't come out of the bathroom. I knock on the door,  
"Seamus? You all right?"  
No answer.  
"Seamus? I'm really sorry."  
Oh, God, has he gone and drowned himself?  
He's locked the door, I'm guessing with magic. I hunt through my bedroom for my wand- I don't use it- and come back to the bathroom door.  
"Alohamora."  
Click.  
Seamus is gone.  
The clothes I lent him are folded up, neatly, on the shelf, and his old, grungy clothes are gone. The window is also open.  
There's a note on top of the clothes.  
"I'm sorry."  
That's it.  
"Shit!"  
I rub my face and lean against the wall. How the hell was I going to find him?  
I thought about calling the police, but I don't really have any grounds to get him back here on; plus Seamus could give just about anything the slip with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back.  
I wonder if he's back at- wherever he was a prostitute, finding some crack and selling his body. Or, he could be lying at the foot of some building, dead.  
"You have to do something," my internal voice mutters. "*He* came back to *you* to mend fences that *you* had broken, sever-year-old fences."  
As I pull on my coat, my sleeve brushes against the stack of papers on the counter and knocks them over. "Damn." I'm about to replace them when I see the drawing on the stack.  
It's of me.  
It's not very good; it reminds me of my first sketches, and it's done in regular pencil, but it's me all right, painting at my easel. I can practically feel the care that he put into it.  
It's placed between some of my more secret drawings, the ones that I drew from memory. Seamus in the showers, Seamus changing, Seamus wet after a dare to jump nude in the lake.  
'Cause, see, I think I love Seamus back. But I don't even know if he loves me anymore.  
He must have when he drew this, I can tell that. But I was just such an arsehole, who knows?  
I wasn't like this before.  
Before Ted got killed and I got taken, before watching my friends die and being helpless to save them, only having to bury them later, before I blew up at my only best mate, before my life fell to tear-drenched shatters.  
Now I have to try to put some pieces together again.  
I pick out a good drawing of Seamus, fold and put it in my pocket. Grab my wand, and I'm off.  
I don't realize how futile this is until I find myself in the red light district some two hours later. Girls are grinning and beckoning their fingers, music blares everywhere.  
I stop one, a tall blond, and show her the drawing of Seamus.  
"Oh, yeah, Irish boy. Gay, right? Ask for Dante's."  
I thank her and run down the street.  
Locating the building, I show the drawing to the man at the gate.  
"I dunno, I'm new, but I'll get the boss."  
He comes back with a tall young man with hazel skin and evil eyes.  
"Irish, right?" I nod. "Yeah, that's Fucking Finnigan. He was just here an hour or so ago, trading for some White Monster. Why?"  
The name he called Seamus makes my stomach turn, and I mutter, "No reason. Thanks." I get out of there as fast as I can. I hadn't known it was so close to my flat.  
Tall buildings, tall buildings. Where were tall buildings?  
Everywhere.  
It turns midnight as I finish my 20th block of buildings. I don't want to acknowledge the thought that's currently pushing for attention in my mind. The one that says, "He would have Avadra Kedavra'd himself ages ago."  
Wonder why he didn't do that the first time?  
In desperation, I grab my wand, preparing for my first spell in three years. Running through all the ones I know, only one pops to mind.  
I raise my wand, think about the first time I met Seamus, and say, "Expecto Patronum!"  
My Patronus bursts from my wand. "Find Seamus!" I yell at it, hoping it'll understand. I have to run to keep up as it immediately takes off.  
Funny, I didn't know it was an Irish Wolfhound. I follow the silvery trail up one street and down another, rounding corners and dodging cars. Finally, it stops in front of a small building- a church?- and disappears in a puff of light.  
I cautiously push open the door and step inside.  
It's quiet, and totally dark. I don't even hear anyone breathing. Could my Patronus have been wrong?  
"Lumos," I whisper, and my wand-tip glows. I hear a faint sound from the front rows.  
Seamus is curled up on the very front pew, want at the ready, face set.  
"Seamus?  
He relaxes and sits upright. His pupils are dilated again, *shit*  
"Seamus, you ran away."  
He's not looking at me.  
"Seamus."  
No response.  
"Seamus!" God, is he that high?  
"What?!" No.  
"Are you okay?"  
He laughs, a bitter laugh that echoes in the cold church.  
"No, I'm not fucking okay."  
"What happened?"  
"You should know."  
"I mean tonight. You've got a new bruise."  
He shrugs.  
"You were at Dante's tonight. Did he hit you?"  
"Naw, the fucker. It was some Italian prick."  
"But Dante gave you the drugs."  
He nods.  
"Why did you go back?"  
"That's me home, innit?"  
"A brothel shouldn't be your home."  
"Yeah, well, it's the only consistent one I've got." Ouch.  
"Why did you leave?"  
"You were mad again. I still felt outta place, anyway."  
"Dammit, Seamus, I was trying to help you!"  
"You didn't want to, not really; you just didn't have the nerve to kick me back out. You've changed. Whatever happened when you were gone messed you up. You're not the Dean I know anymore. The old Dean would have never called me that when I told him, not to something so important. Never would have left like that, not for three feckin' years."  
"Why did you come to my flat?"  
"Wanted to see if you'd gone back to normal."  
"I said I wasn't mad, remember?"  
"You still were, inside."  
"I came to say I'm sorry."  
Silence.  
"Sorry for treating you like that. Sorry for tolerating you. Sorry for pushing you away. Sorry for reacting like that."  
"Show me." It's a challenge.  
"I will."  
And I'm kissing him, bodies smashing together, mouths open, tongues flickering. I see his eyes reflecting in the dimming wandlight, dilated not just with drugs, but with desire.  
"What took you so bloody long?"  
I'm fairly certain that having sex in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary is an eternal sin, especially if both of the participants are male and unmarried, but it might just be worth it.

One year later.  
"Shay, hand me that one, please."  
I'm pointing at a drawing. It's ink on parchment, of us on our first day at Hogwarts, sharing a compartment- and some Wizard sweets- on the train. He obliges.  
"Thanks." I magic it up on the ceiling. "You pick the last one."  
He gives me one of his first sketches; a white morning-glory twined around a black rose. I look at it with a fond smile before tacking it up with the rest.  
He holds the ladder as I climb down, and we lay snuggled up together on the bed, looking up at the ceiling, covered from wall-to-wall in drawings. The flowers are right above our head.  
"I think," murmurs Seamus, "I love you. In fact, I know I do."  
"I love you too, Seamus. I really do."  
And we share a perfect kiss, under his embracing flowers.  
- - - - - Wow! that was a long and angsty one. It's not really my style, but I had to get it out. Back to my Deamus series now...please R&R and tell me if it sucked. 


End file.
